Hair-eality: Competitive Styling in the City
I am dying to get my hair trimmed. For the last few weeks, I have wrapped myself in the delusion that I have no one to impress on the way to, at, or on the way home from work. Since all of those actions account for about 3/4 of my pathetic little existence, we are now at: GOAL achieved!! I do believe that I have not impressed a single soul in ages. whew!
Getting into the why I’m holding out will come later. For the interim, I shall delight you with the tale of how I have managed the frizzed ends crisis: the classic pony tail. Day in and day out. Sometimes I half tuck it up or add a sassy little part to it, but that’s about as wild and crazy as it’s been. I won’t cut it off because when I even entertain the notion, the voice that will not allow me to throw away clothes that no longer fit, shoes that I wouldn’t be caught dead in anymore, or books that I’ve conceded long ago will never be read, informs me not to cause ‘it’s so cute when it’s actually done and that’s handy for the once in a while that you do go ‘out-out,’ which is never as often as the times you leave the apartment for, say, laundry, work, supermarket, etc, but is still worth noting.’ And so I pony tail rally on.
And now to the ‘why’ of this little personal crises. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH IT COSTS TO GET A HAIRCUT IN THIS TOWN? My first foray into keeping up with my do came last summer, after I had been here for about 2 months. I wandered around Union Square (my ‘center of the universe.’ Yes, it’s that wonderful) looking for the suitable, lucky stylist that I would soon call my own! While I wasn’t sure where this angel of all things shiny, sharp and scissorlike was, I did now know that she was not at Vidal Sassoon ($140 for a trim) John Freida ($95) or Redken ($100). All prices relayed to me with straight faces.
Scoffing at the bourgesoise, I decided my hair diva was at the $20 joint. I mean, it’s just a trim, right? If my cat would hold the mirror straight and not bitch so much, I could do it myself! Besides, they all sorta receive the same kinda training, right? Mannequin heads, Barbie’s, what’s the difference? After my locks were already washed (read as: wetted with a spray bottle) I realized we were going to hit a few snags. My grasp of Spanish is tenuous at best, but I tried to make her my new BFF by heavily complimenting the little haircutter hip-pack she was rockin’ in the hopes that her new adoration would help her help me. But, when the only tools you employ are hand gestures, repeating words in English over and over again, annunciating the crap out of them and raising your voice, it seems that certain phrases do not translate at all, such as ‘THEY’RE BANGS,’ ‘NO LAYERS,’ and ‘DEAR SWEET JESUS, CAN YOU SHARPEN THOSE SCISSORS?’ It wasn’t a total loss, but I learned a valuable lesson that day.
So the hunt continued. In a search for Bumble and Bumble products, I found a salon tucked into an ABC home goods store (very chic) It was cute, the people were tragically hip and I decided to spring for it. I had to shame myself by inquiring into the price of a trim (big no-no in Manhatta-land. If you have to ask, you shouldn’t be there) but the guy was nice about it, so I figured that alone was worth the $75 trim I was about to get. *gulp* Did she say seventy-five dollars? You bet I did. I sucked it up, cashed in that savings bond I got for my tenth birthday (thanks Grandma!) sold a couple pints of blood and did it. I nursed that do for months. I was pretty desperate and made one additional trip back there, but I was feeling woozy from blood loss and decided that if I was going have this as an addiction, shouldn’t treatment and a support group be involved?
One day I was approached by a young girl with a business card and an offer. She said she would give me a cut for $20 at Nick Arrojo’s salon (THE GUY FROM WHAT NOT TO WEAR!!) and I signed up. That’s how I discovered that all of the good (that’s my midwest creepin up, what I mean is ‘upscale’) salons offer discounted hair treatments when their students perform them. A-ha!
After a quick internet search, I quickly realized that in order to navigate the in’s and out’s of these salons, you need to be equipped with a Dungeons and Dragons master (they have strategic planning down pat) no less than 3 calendars, 6 different colored highlighters, a few sick days from work and a box of tissues for when you get turned down. Oh yes, hair salons can turn you down. (stupid Bumble and Bumble) How’s that for an ego shot?
What’s with all the heavy artillery you ask? Well, some of the programs you have to apply for, they only hold them on certain hours of certain days, you have to be able to devote at least 3 hours of your time to the process, they are never on the weekends or after work, everybody and their grandmother tries to get into them, they only do certain styles at certain times (this week is bobs!)…but they are really reasonably priced. I did try calling the Arrojo salon to see if I could get my little chicky again, but they’ve so graduated from silly trims. To have one of their professional stylists nip the tips: between $55-$400. I couldn’t even bring myself to ask how they determine what end of the scale you’re on. And yes, she said it without the slightest hint of humor.
I stopped at the drug store this morning and bought a new supply of ponytail holders. Only cost a buck sixty-nine. HA!
I wouldn’t exactly call it ’singing’ in the rain
So, I have been wanting to write about street meat (we’ll get to it. Waiiiit for it.) here in the city, but then I got distracted by ‘The Impossible Quiz’ (http://www.newgrounds.com/portal/view/365143. Try it. It will make you insane, which is oh, so fun) for the past several days and with all the recent hoo-hah going on in the city, I’ve decided to talk about it instead.
So, the city was in chaos and turmoil yesterday. Was it a terrorist threat? Was security and welfare compromised? Fire, explosion, crazed Britney sighting? No. It rained. Granted, it did rain a lot, nonetheless, the insanity that ensued necessitates a ‘but still…’
It kicked off at about 4 in the AM with some serious thunder and lightning action. Now we have no AC, so I have a pretty complicated set of fannery going on in my boudoir. I have the double fan, window unit which can both suck and blow (do what you will with that) in one window and a small, rickety table fan in the other window. The thought that went into this set up was arduous and the effect (in my mind) is that if the one by my bed sucks air in, while the rickety one pulls air out, I will get a nice circulation thing happening. As I said, ‘in my mind’, which is filled with all sorts of fanciful imaginitive things. Like my relationship with Vincent D’Onofrio.
So, I slumbered in my little self-actualized wind tunnel until the cracks of thunder and lightning roused me. Now, I’m barely conscious at 9am, when I’ve been up for 3 hours already, so the 4am wake up call left me a wee bit muddled. Convinced that lighting was plotting to specifically strike the metal cage surrounding the blades of the rickety fan, I tottered over to it, turned it off and removed it from the window, barely recognizing the water pouring onto the sill and my wood floors. Also note that I turned off the fan in the window furthest from me, as opposed to the one directly above my head. Genius. Pure genius.
The storm came down hard and fast for a couple of hours but had ended by 7:30 when I left for the train. I was way early heading out, but it was already 90˚and my shower was starting to wear off.
Waiting for a train can be a lot like sitting at home on a Saturday night, desperately longing for the phone to ring with some fabulous party invite and pathetically vamping ‘what about me?’ It hurts. It feels personal. It offers ample time for the sweat to hike all the way down from your neck to your butt crack. Oh joy. But wait!! There it is! And as everyone ponies up to dash on the moment the doors open, you realize the train is empty and it’s not going to stop.
When a train finally does stop and graciously lets us on, it’s so jam packed that I wind up getting more action in two train stops than I’ve gotten in the past year. (‘How YOU doin?’ wink, wink) So, I stand on the train, some guys face at my crotch level, listening to the grunts and groans of the poor bastards by the doors as people try to bum rush and force a spot for themselves onboard at each stop. And I hadn’t had any coffee since I had run out at home so I was super pleasant. *sigh*
It took us an hour to go the distance it normally takes 15 minutes to travel. Then I had to switch trains, sit in it while it didn’t move for about 20 minutes (PS-it had no AC either, so we were pretty ripe at this point.) Finally, the train moved one stop, then kicked us out of the train the train station, basically everywhere underground. Oh darn. Since it had rained, there was water on the tracks of all the downtown trains, so they weren’t running anymore. A modern city thwarted by H2O. Goodie.
I had to walk the rest of the way to work. Not that big of a deal, but once I got there I literally had to go into the bathroom, peel my dress off, and mop off my schweaty bod. Yeah. You all want a date with me now, dontcha?
Since our trains are distinguished by letters and numbers, the MTA service update read like a bad trip down Sesame Street. I could just picture The Count (the 1 train is not running, mwuhaha, the 2 train is not running, mwahaha) and the creepy, furry puppets dancing around like they’re auditioning for The Labyrinth musical. The trip home was just as bad and involved a whole lot more shoving, pushing, wriggling, swearing, shouting, jabbing, sighing, eyerolling and ‘intellectual’ dialogue on where the money for MTA projects actually goes. One suggestion was: ‘Right down the god-damn toilet!’ I think they’re onto something there.
Through all this I learned several things:
1) your boss is so happy when everyone manages to make it in on a day like that, that she springs for lunch. (the Four Seasons does NOT deliver, btw)
2) wear a skirt with about 2 days growth on them legs when there’s the possibility of a train ride like that. It helps fend people off.
3) leave the fans and all other potential lighting hazards on. Even if it just blows out your power strip, your ‘apartment being struck by lighting’ is a pretty rock solid excuse for calling in.
